


hogsmeade date

by tomaetotomahtoe



Series: of wands and stun darts (and all the things in between) [3]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comfort, Crushes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:26:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25144648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomaetotomahtoe/pseuds/tomaetotomahtoe
Summary: Alex just got off work, so to say. Harry's in school. It's a Hogsmeade weekend. Ergo...-----“Letter from Padfoot?” Ron pipes up, picking up a piece of sausage to feed to the owl. “Hang on,” he frowns, “it’s wearing the Hogsmeade Post cuff around its leg. Who would send a letter fromHogsmeade?”Meanwhile, Harry feels as if he couldn’t breathe, staring at the rolled up,linednote attached to the owl. He retrieves the note, letting the owl take off from his arm, and unrolls it hurriedly, staring in astonishment at the words, neatly scribbled in painfully familiar blue ink.Barely three sentences, and already his heart is starting to pound. He gaped at the paper, ears flushing red, and even Ron choked on his pumpkin juice from the side as he peeped at the note. “How d-did he– ” Ron spluttered.“What! Who’s that from?” Hermione says, startled by their reaction.“Gotta go,” Harry croaks instead, grabbing his things and practically dashing from the Great Hall.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Alex Rider
Series: of wands and stun darts (and all the things in between) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798747
Comments: 41
Kudos: 257





	1. sweet summer rain

Harry thumps his head dejectedly on the table, grunting in pain as his forehead hits the wood. Ron blinks groggily and yawns as he sits himself down besides him.

“Cheers, mate,” he says, one hand reaching out to pat Harry amiably on the shoulder even as he helps himself to the breakfast sausages. Harry grumbles in response, lifting his head slightly only to drop it back down again with a thud.

“Morning Ron, Morning Harry– Merlin, what’s the matter with him?” He hears a familiar voice in front of him, one that he ignores as he steadily repeats the now familiar motion of hitting his head on the table. He closes his eyes and focuses on melting into the wood of the table, resisting the urge to groan.

“Morning ‘Moine” Ron says, chewing loudly and splattering bits of meat all over the table. He ignored her appalled expression with practiced ease as she slips into her seat, pouring herself some tea. “He’s been like this since yesterday night.” Even with his eyes closed, Harry could just _hear_ the eyeroll in Ron’s voice. “After McGonagall’s announcement on this ball thing.”

Hermione hums. Harry feels her push a cuppa into his hand, and he reluctantly lifts his head to smile weakly at her. “Thanks,” he says as she returns his smile with a concerned look.

“Are you alright?” She asks gently. “You must be disappointed, not going back for Christmas. Does your friend know?”

At her words, he resists the urge to thump his head on the table. Again.

“Not yet,” he mumbles, sipping at his tea “I’ll have to send a letter today.” _Although,_ he thinks despondently, _who knows when he will see it?_

Hedwig has been coming back pretty empty-handed lately. That usually means that Alex has gone on one of his missions, hiding undercover. Nowadays Harry sends all his letters to Alex’s house, since a snowy white owl appearing wherever he is could compromise his position.

The last time they spoke –if you could call it that– was when Sirius took the risk to fire-call him from muggle Chelsea, temporarily connecting their fireplace to the Floo network.

Between Sirius’ conspiracy theories, Harry freaking out about fighting dragons, and the chaos of appliances going batshit from stray magic leaking out of the fireplace, the call felt absurdly short.

Muggles couldn’t quite handle fire, even magical ones as it turns out, and they had a few hilarious moments of Sirius trying to pass messages back and forth between them while on the call. Harry barely got in a ‘how do you do’ and ‘yes _yes_ I’ll go make up with Ron’ to Alex and Jack before he was abruptly cut off, the fire blasting his head back out to the common room, leaving him on his bum with his hair singed, spitting out soot.

(He found out later that they busted the television and caused a power outage throughout the neighbourhood. Magic and electricity really does _not_ mix well together. At all.)

Merlin, he misses them. He wonders how much mischief Padfoot has gotten up to since Harry’s left for Hogwarts.

Sirius spent most of the summer tracking Peter Pettigrew all over Europe –and even at one point, into central America– with Buckbeak’s help, but in the sporadic pockets of time where he returned to Britain over the break, Alex’s home became his safe haven, a perfect blind spot set in the muggle world that Dementors can’t reach.

With Alex’s influence, Sirius’ notoriety in the muggle world got quietly swept under the rug –Harry still doesn’t know how Alex did that, and Alex assures Harry that he doesn’t want to know either– and while he is not quite able to walk freely along the streets, still a wanted fugitive, he’s no longer really in hiding either, at least within the muggle world.

As time passes by, people quickly forgot about the mass murderer that graced the news all those months ago in favour of new drama. Like how another one of the Queen’s corgis got stolen and was replaced by a hamster in the palace, causing absolute mayhem in the security sector.

(It’s definitely a magical incident. The corgi is still there, except that it’s a hamster, now.)

Harry grins inwardly. Last summer was _fun_ in a way it wasn’t before. He barely even stayed at the Dursleys, choosing to travel to Chelsea almost every other day, eventually staying over the last two weeks before leaving for the Quidditch World Cup.

It was a special summer. Alex had the full month off, recovering from a fractured leg –now I can actually study for my GSCEs, he jokes– and Harry has never had so much time with him since their days in primary school.

He also gets to catch up with Sirius, and he gets to _learn about his parents_.

Not just learn about them, but. He got to learn about Lily and James in a way that wasn’t just “you have your mother’s eyes” and “yer father was a powerful auror, Harry, did ye know?”

He learns that his mother had a fiery temper that is quick to cool as much as it is quick to flare up, that she often scolded James for leaving official (cough, _confidential_ ) ministry documents at the kitchen table. That her magic carried a specially sort of affinity with flowers, that they were quick to bloom when she touched their petals. That Lily herself carried a certain sort of _kindness_ about her, that endeared others to her as much as she did to them.

He learns that his father was quick on his feet and had a silver tongue, able to sprout tales of absolute bullshit to get him and the Marauders out of sticky situations. That James never ever went to the library until the day they found out about Lupin’s condition, after which he buried himself there for weeks and came out with a step-by-step plan to turn them all into animagi, of all things!

That he dutifully asked his mother out to every Hogsmaede weekend for _months_ , and that she rejected all of them, before one day she asked _him_ out to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, causing him to swoon on the spot like a ninny.

Sirius often rehashes this particular story, chuckling as he reminisced the three of them staggering down the hallway, hauling a dazed and utterly lovestruck James to the hospital wing with Lily giggling at their backs.

“And that was it,” Sirius would say, smiling wistfully at the memory. “There was no turning back. They were absolute fools for each other and anyone could see that they were in love.”

“Love,” Harry would repeat quietly. _Love._ He would sigh the word over and over in his heart as warmth blooms in his chest and his body tingles from the lightness of it.

Sometimes while Sirius regals the household of his misadventures, Alex is there. Sometimes he is behind Harry at the kitchen table, washing the dishes while Jack works the stir-fry over the stove, the two of them listening quietly. Sometimes Alex is leaning against Harry on the couch, handing over a spare blanket to his godfather _because it’s chilly, and you’re not a dog right now, Mr Black, sorry– Padfoot._

And Harry would stare at him, at Jack curled up at her armchair near the fire, reading intently at one of her thick law books. He would glance around, lump in his throat, at the four of them lounging sleepily in the living room while a storm pours and thunders outside.

He would breath in the sweet summer rain, treasuring these quiet moments, wishing fiercely in his heart that time could stand still, that he could capture this feeling to live it over and over again.

He would look at Alex and think about _I love you,_ spoken softly in that quiet night, and feel as if he could fly.

Harry breaks out of his thoughts at a hand shaking his shoulder. “S-sorry, what?” He glances at Ron and Hermione, both looking very amused.

“Your robes,” Ron sniggers, gesturing at him. Blinking, Harry looks down, and realises that he has been absentmindedly spooning baked beans onto his clothes rather than into his mouth, the sticky substance drooping sadly down his lap.

“Oops?” He grins, turning to Hermione and sending her a pleading look.

She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, you’re almost as bad as Ron,” she tries to huff sternly, even as the corners of her mouth twitches helplessly upwards. She takes out her wand, waving a _scourgify_ at him. _Ah_ , the joys of magic.

Ron opens his mouth and moves to stand, as if to protest indignantly, but halts as crumbs and flakes from various breakfast items flutters off his own robes. He sits himself back with great aplomb, coughing pointedly at Hermione’s smug expression and Harry’s head thud on the table – this time with shoulders shaking as he tries to muffle his laughter.

“Right,” Ron shrugs, grabbing another piece of toast. “At least if you keep this on, lesser girls will ask you to the ball. Poor Harry’s got a firstie crying first thing in the morning, right outside the Great Hall” he tells Hermione with no small amount of glee.

Harry groans, mortified. “I can’t. Just.” He throws his hands up in the air. “It’s still _early_. It was announced yesterday, for goodness sake!”

He still remembers the moment Professor McGonagall announced the Yule Ball in the common room. After which she turned to him and tutted in front of everyone, “Potter, do make sure to get yourself a partner. The Champions will be opening the dance, after all!”

As Harry muttered a “Yes, Professor” after her retreating back, he was stuck with a sudden sense of _danger_ , honed from years of dodging frying pans, criminals and dark lords alike. Harry felt his hair stand up on the back of his neck, goosebumps running down his arms, and _has there always been this many girls in Gryffindor?_

The common room burst into commotion, and Harry swallowed a gulp upon hearing shrills and giggles coming from various parts to the room, not unlike the wild shrieks of the golden egg.

Extremely unnerved, he muttered an excuse to Ron and stumbled up to his room, plopping onto his bed while hoping very _very_ hard for the events of Friday night to be erased.

Alas, it was not to be.

“Well, you _did_ just defeat a Hungarian Horntail,” Ron says consolingly. “even the fifth years over in Hufflepuff are eyeing at you as we speak, although they hated you before."

“Do you have anyone in mind, though?” Hermione prods. “Best to catch them early.”

Harry shoved a treacle tart into his mouth, choosing not to answer. His thoughts only get gloomier the more he thinks about it.

As always, Ron always seem to know what’s going on in his head.

“Have some more, mate” Ron piles more treacle tarts on to Harry’s plate, ignoring Hermione’s scandalised _eating so much is bad for your teeth!,_ patting him on the shoulder. He seems to be doing it a lot these days. “How about Cho Chang from Ravenclaw? Perfectly safe, _magical_ choice, yeah? She smiled at you from the Quidditch pitch last week.”

Hermione lifts an eyebrow, “the _seeker_? I hear that she’s together with–”

They were interrupted by a screech, and Harry turns in time to see a brown owl burrowing towards him from above. It just barely lands on his arm, which he raised on reflex after having Hedwig claw at him one too many times.

“Letter from Padfoot?” Ron pipes up, picking up a piece of sausage to feed to the owl. “Hang on,” he frowns, “it’s wearing the Hogsmeade Post cuff around its leg. Who would send a letter from _Hogsmeade_?”

Meanwhile, Harry feels as if he couldn’t breathe, staring at the rolled up, _lined_ note attached to the owl. He retrieves the note, letting the owl take off from his arm, and unrolls it hurriedly, staring in astonishment at the words, neatly scribbled in painfully familiar blue ink.

Barely three sentences, and already his heart is starting to pound. He gaped at the paper, ears flushing red, and even Ron choked on his pumpkin juice from the side as he peeped at the note. “Ho–how did he– ” Ron spluttered all over his robes.

“What! Who’s that from?” Hermione says, startled by their reactions.

“Gotta go,” Harry croaks instead, grabbing his things and practically dashing from the Great Hall, ignoring Hermione’s calls and maybe tripping through a gaggle of girls who approached him on the way.

Harry doesn’t quite remember the journey, only the blast of cool, fresh air that sting his face as he pushes open the heavy entrance doors, and the crunch of fresh snow and dirt under his shoes as he sprints down the path, heart soaring with anticipation.

At the edge of the Hogwarts gates, he sees a familiar figure, tousled blond hair ruffled by the wind, wearing a heavy black coat. Harry's chest tighten and _squeezes_ , butterflies fluttering in his stomach as every part of him sings in wonder.

The figure turns as he gets closer, and Harry feels as if his own soul just about left his body and went on up to heaven _without_ him when he sees a breathtaking smile stretch over the other boy’s face. His eyes lit up, warm brown abysses with specks of hazel. Harry’s heart stutters weakly at the sight.

“Hey,” grins Alex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah how did you get there, muggle!
> 
> -
> 
> Has anyone read nightshade yet? I haven’t had the chance to buy it, since the bookstores have been closed for ages.


	2. whirlwind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok I didn't expect for it to take this long. you know how its like you have a plan, but then you find out it's kinda hard to put it down into actual words? I hope you guys like it though! 
> 
> I just bought nightshade!! read the few chapters and wow it starts off with a POWbamWHAM! 
> 
> (technically this fic would be set afterwards? but I'm not far ahead enough to know whether its compliant with the book. I guess we'll find out...)

“–and as you can see, we are walking alongside the famous view of the harbour. Hurry along now! We will now to go the pier to where you can take some pictures and watch the sunrise. Now, this was designed in the 19th century by one of Scotland most famous engineers, Thomas Telford who also–”

In the little touristy town of Portree, a chirpy tour guide readily directs the walking tour, script rattled effortlessly off her lips, sweet smile on her face, as she speaks into her microphone, an amplifier attached to her hip.

The morning group follows her, a mishmash of couples and families, with young children that run around excitably, pointing out the colourful cottages on the harbour, pastel shades of pinks and blues and yellows covered in twinkling, white snow. A toddler is perched on his mother’s hip as he yawns, face scrunching grumpily at the cold breeze.

A couple in their forties clutches at a cup of coffee, bought from a nearby store. As the man and his wife’s hands cover the paper coffee cup, they giggle and huddle for warmth as they sit at the edge of the harbour, legs swinging over the side and waiting for the sun to rise.

Among this group stands a teenage boy, hands around his own cup, steam wafting of the top as he inhales the caramelised, nutty aroma of coffee. There is a scar on his face, one straight line cutting down his cheekbone through his lips, to the edge of his chin, looking fresh and recently healed. As he holds up the cup of coffee, his sleeve slips down, exposing a bandaged arm, extending from his palm to his elbow.

His eyes linger on the brochure in his other hand –It says, _Top Ten Must-Do Things in the Isle of Skyle, You Won’t Regret It!_ on the cover– as he shifts position, boots crunching on the snow-covered road, staining it flecks of burnt reds and muddy browns.

As the boy pretends to admire the sunrise spilling over the horizon, spectres of warm yellow tones reflecting off the waves at the harbour, Alex angles his head slightly to the side, keeping an eye on a plainly dressed man leaning against docks, fingers jabbing incessantly on his phone. Another settles slightly further away, sitting on one of the benches provided at the harbours for the various tourists that touch by this town, reading a newspaper. Both agents blend perfectly into the back ground, dressing and acting as plain and ordinary as possible.

Alex taps the brochure on his thigh and sips at his coffee, wincing as the movement pulls at the cut on his lips. He gazes steadily at the waves and fishing boats below the harbour, pondering on his next course of action.

Looking back, he _may_ acted a bit rashly.

It was on a spur of the moment when, while wrapping up an emergency debrief on his latest mission, he quite eloquently blurted out “I’m going for a vacation”. After which he then proceeded to, in front of the various deputy generals and secretaries of security and terrorism, stumble out of the meeting room– and then out of the MI6 Glasgow Branch, hailing a cab to Portree without so much as a _by your leave_.

All at barely one in the morning.

In his defence though, he was more than a little sleep deprived and mildly inebriated on painkillers, ones which are probably wearing off now.Any pressure or friction against his right arm causes him to grit his teeth, despite it being bandaged. The skin underneath are littered with blisters and burns from a chemical spill, feeling raw and numb and cold and hot all at once.

Just one of the many hazards of his “part-time job”.

He turns his head and moves to follow as the tour guide gestures for them to move ahead, detailing their route to the town square.

From the corner of his eye, Alex watches bemusedly as Man On Bench stands and walks to inspect the menu of the “Fish and Chips” restaurant, inching closer to the tour group that moved quickly away from the pier, sunrise done and over with. Guy With Phone follows too, of course.

Alex’s just glad that he wasn’t tossed back into an undisclosed van by said men and sent back to England. Mrs Jones must have been feeling extra guilty.

All in all, Alex muses, Portree is quite _the_ ideal vacation spot. From the rustic architecture, narrow roads, to the majestic backdrop of mountains surrounding the once-fishing port, it’s no doubt a place many are eager to go for an escape, leaving the bustling city life for fresh air and a breathtaking view of the Scottish highlands.

It’s just not exactly the reason why he chose to come here

He manoeuvres his way nearer to the front of the group, nodding at the right places as the guide peppers them with details of the town’s history, urging them to explore the Christmas markets set up in the busy months of November and Decembers.

Alex strolls along the path, gazing lingering at each of the alleyways, shops, and pubs littering the streets, bakeries and souvenir stalls alike starting to wake and bustle as morning light brings the day’s first tourists into the shops, eyes bright and wallets full. He keeps his eye out. 

*

It is at the edge of the town square where he see it.

Or rather, _doesn’t_ see it. His eyes slides easily off the rusty, grimy metal gates at the end of the open market like feet slipping over algae-covered pebbles, like water rushing over stone. A cool breezes ruffles at his hair, and he thinks about his ID card he _knows_ that he left back in Glasgow, that he should really go back and get it before he–

_There._

Alex pointedly did not look at the spot, even as he edges closer, keeping at it in his peripheral vision. He remains carefully disinterested, focusing on Guys One and Two nearby, tracking one of them observing him from a few stalls over, the other leaning against the wall next to the fountain at the other side of the square.

As he looks away, Alex inches towards the gates.

Muggle-repelling charms aren’t new to Alex. Nor are they new to most parents of muggleborn witches and wizards, many of whom certainly experienced their first ones while being _painfully_ dragged through the Leaky Cauldron by their overenthusiastic children – often through sheer force of will, sometimes accompanied by an exasperated professor from Hogwarts.

Painfully, because the mounting feeling of panic and anxiety that builds up and compounds as one nears a _forbidden_ place is a terrible feeling. Never mind the fact that there is a foreign _thing_ invading your thoughts, overwhelming your sense of being and telling you to go somewhere else for something urgent that hasn’t existed before that moment.

It is the reason why, despite knowing about the magical world, the parents don’t often join their children for subsequent trips to Diagon Alley, year after year.

The first few times Harry had been left confused and hurt when Alex kept dragging him away from the pub with one inane excuse after another, becoming more uncharacteristically aggressive the more he was pulled towards it, despite knowing and being reminded of the charm multiple times.

Harry, with both innate magical blood and magical power, just didn’t get it. Not until they sat down later, and he was horrified to find that the charm itself doesn’t lose its effect once you know about magic, and continues _hurting_ you the moment you try to focus your gaze head on, magic cruelly overwriting your brain, doing a fantastic job to _repel_ you away like some irritating breed of mosquito.

It was then Alex first realised the enormity of magic.

Of the gaping line between his and Harry’s world. Of being unable to cross it.

(Magic _is_ amazing, yes, but he has never felt himself _lack_ so deeply, knowing that magic would hurt him so, simply because he is what they labelled a muggle, a less-then not-witch and not-wizard.

Not without good reason, Alex knows, after he poured over first through third year books on goblin wars and witch trials.)

Of course, needless to say, it hasn’t stopped Alex from trying.

With all the confidence built from throwing himself through the Leaky Cauldron and at pillars in King’s Cross Station when Harry isn’t there, Alex walks steadily through the direction of the gates, no longer able to not avoid facing it head past a certain distance. He keeps his gaze on the ground, ignoring the sense of urgency building up in him as he realises that he left his wallet in the car, that he didn’t finish his debriefing and the chief is waiting, that Jack is at home and _vulnerable_ to threat without him there, she needs him _right_ ** _now_** _and he_ ** _really ought to turn theOTHERWAY_** –

All at once the pressure disappears, the sudden absence of angry, anxious pulsing in his head causes him to feel a little lightheaded.

There’s a shiver in the air.

Alex turns his head to find himself on the other side of the gate, now a less rusty, not-at all grimy pewter.

Behind him, the market continues unhindered, as if magic didn’t just try to push him away, an invisible yet ferocious barrier between two worlds.

He easily tracks the two agents, in the same spots. They look at him, and he watches as their gaze slide off instinctively, compelled to look away. Their expressions change from watchful into full on wariness from where they were stationed, and they straightened and looked at the other, suddenly no longer acting ordinary or plain now that Alex _is not there_.

As the agents scattered to comb the area, Alex lets out a breath, and move ahead.

In front of him was no longer an entrance to the dead end of an alleyway, but a quieter, calmer reflection of the town square – with notable differences.

Buildings in various gothic styles, fully bricked rather than the mixture of modern glass and ceremics that pop in and out around the muggle district, fleeting pieces of modernity. Olden roads lined with cobblestones rather than tarred roads. Twinkling Christmas string lights and electric bulbs are replaced candles or lamps. Purple banners with gold star outline decorate the pillars, some of them with the words “Portree Pride!” Proudly embroidered on it.

Most glaringly, the lack of tourists, the noisy groups of excitement and curiosity that continue to bumble around behind him; the sounds are dulled, as if the happenings behind are occurring further away than it is.

And of course, the few people walking around in tall pointy hats and sweeping robes.

As always when entering the magical world, Alex feels as if he stepped backwards in time.

He stares onto the scene in front of him, at shops of fresh produce, food and various floating knick knacks. He needs to move on soon, before someone notices a boy standing at the edge of the barrier looking unsure and anxious, sees his clothing and thinks _muggle._ Before they take out their wand and erases his memory.

As luck would have it, Alex spots just what he needs, a shop in the far left with the signage above labelled “Hewer’s Skye Flyes – Floo, Broom, and Carpets”.

Steeling himself, he walks quickly over to the store, ignoring curious glances thrown at his back –at his _muggle_ coat and boots– and opens the door.

A small bell rings at his entrance. He steps into the shop, eyes glossing over the fireplace, to the brooms hung ceremoniously onto the wall by quality and price, to the piles of _flying_ carpets just floating at one corner, a witch waving her wand as needles busy themselves with patching a hole in one of the floating, ornate rugs.

Trying not to gape at the sight, he walks over to the counter, where a tiny old man sits, heavy round glasses and pointed long nose staring down at a list of records, quill scratching quickly as he mutters under his breath.

He clears his throat. “Excuse me, sir” he says.

The quill continues scratching at the parchment. “What do you want.”

“A-a. Portkey. To Hogsmeade.” The elderly stops writing. He slowly lifts his head, eyes peering shrewdly at the boy in front of him. He sniffs the air, and frowns. “You are a muggle.”

Alex startles. “Yes,” he admitted, not expecting to be outed so quickly.

His initial plan, pretending to be a squib wouldn’t work here, not when the sensitive magics detailing transport –more specifically _teleportation_ , seriously, is it any wonder why he doesn’t like physics, when he knows that its quantum laws are broken so easily everyday?– are affected by magical blood.

It certainly wouldn’t do him good to get tossed in the floo. He found out the hard way, when he tried to stick his head in his own fireplace a few months, thinking magical fire wouldn’t hurt him.

His neck tingles back in warning.

“I'm visiting a friend,” he continues, tries to get a word in edgewise before he gets mind-wiped and thrown out of the magical district. “A student at Hogwarts.”

The elder stares at him in silence, eyes narrowed. Alex stares back.

At the corner of the room, a carpet sneezes, and dust billows across the room

“Return?”

“S-sorry?”

“Return trip? Or one-way?”

“Uh... r-return trip, please. Sir.”

“…Very well. Two galleons and 10 sickles.”

He takes out his wallet, thanking God –or Merlin? As Sirius shouted when he hit his knee under the table– for that one time he asked Harry to convert his cash into magical money, ‘just in case’.

Alex places three galleons on the counter, and the shopkeeper reaches over to grab the coins. Despite his small size, his hands are disproportionately large; fat grubby claws covered in warts and lumps. Long, sharp fingernails scratching over the wood of the counter, the screech making his skin crawl.

The elder crooks a finger at him, and Alex abruptly lurches forward without warning, pulled by front of his coat. The man reaches out to tap his wand on his top button, muttering a long string of incantations. The button flashes, glowing slightly before reverting to its plain, black colour.

“ _Muggle._ ” The elder sneered as he points at his button. “Touch here and say password to go there. Password is Hewer. Same to come back”

The old man grins. Alex struggles to keep his face blank as he stares straight into rows of jagged, pointy teeth. “There may be… _side effects_ , due to your filthy blood. I hope you have eaten little.” With another careless wave of his hand, the hold on his coat releases, and Alex stumbles backwards.

“Thank you,” he chokes out, tampering down on some _feelings_ that threatened to surface, ones that he will deal with later. Alarm bells ring at the back of his head. He grips the button. “Hewer.”

Something hooks at him, behind his navel, and _pulls_. Suddenly it feels as if there were a hundred hooks, digging into his skin, and Alex bites back a scream as they attempt to squeeze him through a hole the size of a speck of dust, body compressing painfully, pressure on all sides as he feels himself hurled simultaneously in every direction.

But as quickly as it came, it was over, and Alex found himself slammed on to the ground, branches and wet snow digging into his back, staring at the clear blue sky. Sunlight –it’s ten’o clock, his mind supplies– glares into his face, and he turns to his side, dry heaving into the cold, wet ground.

He curls up on the ground, gingerly holding his injured arm, trying to catch his breath. He counts his heartbeats as they start to slow – his mind sluggishly chugging on on beat by beat, slowly processing the events of that morning.

Every step in this world feels like a gamble, a leap on chance and bravado. In his latest encounter with the man – _creature_ , he feels like he’d just escaped by the skin of his teeth. He has a feeling it was only because he made for a particularly amusing specimen. Even so, Alex knows, the elder could make it that he disappears off the face of the earth, and no one would be the wiser. Certainly, no Intelligence Agency would be able to find his body, hidden in secluded dimensions within these rifts and tears in space.

Despite that, he can’t help but huff out an elated laugh when he looks up.

The sign in front of him remains steady and unchanging, big blocky red letters outlining ‘Hogsmeade Station’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor alex, de magic world is unfriendly to muggleborns, even more unfriendly to muggles. 
> 
> I haven't really seen this sort of thing, so I thought it'd be fun to explore the concept of a muggle (with honest-to-god no magic or special abilities) entering the magical world! admittedly, it would be more 'fun' if Alex wasn't a hyper-vigilant spy and is more clueless about things. 
> 
> I swear there will be more actual fluff coming very soon! I swear on my life. there will be HUGS.
> 
> -
> 
> real talk I live on the equator and only seen the snow a few times on hols, this is me trying my best to describe cold weather :') "slush", "its cold and wet!". I hope you guys can still imagine the scene when you read it, though!


	3. barn swallow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3rd year conservatory has been nuts!!! and the year ones are crazy, they keep kicking me out of the practice rooms... at 9 in the morning– literally who wakes up that early???? (no hate tho, I love that they're hardworking, and they always sound crazy good too!! real linglings!). it's also a bit strange to play in chamber when we have to sit 1 or 2 meters away from the other – although I'm glad we've come to a point where we _could_ even do so to began with :)
> 
> had a short bit written and sitting in my drafts for weeks before I finally strapped myself down for the weekend to write it – I've neglected whole bunch of other work along the way– but this has really been a great stress reliever, to be very honest!
> 
> enough with my rambles – hope you guys enjoy the chapter!!

The first thing Alex feels when he sees Harry is–

Relief.

The other boy sprints down the path, skidding dangerously over parts where puddles had iced over, tripping over tree roots and snow-covered rocks. Harry’s woefully underdressed in a mere sweater and jeans, if only because his outer robes and scarves and bags are hanging haphazardly off his arms. His messy hair, further tangled by the wind, arranged itself into something resembling a bird’s nest.

But he looks good.

Uninjured.

_Safe._

The feeling punches the breath out from his lungs and kicks him behind the knees, and Alex feels his lips curl up into a smile even as his legs wobble and he feels like heaving for air.

“Hey.” He manages to wheeze out, rather unattractively, as Harry stops to gape at him from behind heavy wrought-iron gates.

“Alex–“ Harry starts to say, and halts. He clutches his arms tightly around his bundle of things, and Alex watches his face crumple as he pushes even faster, stumbling past the entrance gates.

(Gates that were already half-opened in preparation for the Hogsmeade weekend, and _gods,_ how lucky was Alex to cheat his way here on this Saturday out of all Saturdays? When he’d already settled to possibly watch and talk to him from afar –to confirm his status, to see him safe and happy would have been _enough_ ).

And suddenly, Harry was in his arms, and Alex feels almost lightheaded from how much he could _breathe_ again. Arms anchored around his back, the weight leaning to him familiar and _unfamiliar_. He notes absentmindedly, that Harry has grown taller _yet again_ , that they’re almost head to head now.

“You,” Harry was laughing into his coat, eyes wet. “are _impossible_. Blimey, I don’t even want to know how you got here– how many rules you’ve probably broken–”

“Anything for you,” he tries to joke, but it comes out with painful sort of earnestness. _“Gods_ , I missed you.”

The arms around him tighten.

“Me too”.

Alex raises his hand, brushes his hand through the familiar mop of unruly hair. He feels for new bumps, cuts, scars. Presses his nose into the scalp. Harry smells like parchment and mint and pinecones and Alex is shuddering, breathing, _breathing_.

He’s taking a gulp of fresh air, a sip of cool spring water after crawling through a grimy, blood-stained, cobwebbed tunnel for days without end.

He hugs back just as tightly. Curls his fingers in.

(Clutches at him. With his own grimy, blood-stained, cobwebbed hands.)

He didn’t know how long they just stood there, soaking in each other’s presence. At some point Harry’s hand found its way to his chin. Over the split lip he got from a tussle two days prior.

Harry thumbs at the split lip, studies the angry red scar crossed diagonally from his cheek. “When. How?”

“The usual.” He rasps, throat suddenly dry. “They wanted information. Threatened to take out my eye.”

Something feels different, Alex thinks, at the way Harry looks at him. His eyes are darkened, emeralds aglow from the inside. The touch on his chin is tender, sweet, the arms around him warm, and there’s a strange energy in the air, a vibrating of atoms. A _something_ around them, probing and prodding and prowling, an electrifying _intent_.

Alex’s gut twists uncomfortably.

“Hey,” he reaches out to poke at Harry’s forehead, trying for casual. “They didn’t succeed. Obviously. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. And,” he frowns, “did you bump your forehead on something on the way?”

“Ah.” Harry blinks, and blushes. His hand raises up to cover the reddish bump on his forehead as he muttered _it’s nothing_ while looking down.The smokey, oppressive air retracts and the air feels lighter again, the sky brighter.

They both jump when the sounds of laughing and rustling came from the distance, students walking in their direction.

Without needing to say anything to each other, they moved, walking quickly away before they could be stumbled upon by nosy onlookers. Harry starts to fumble with his things, actually starting to wear them _now_ rather than when he first went out.

_This boy._

Alex sighs fondly, and takes his scarf to wound it around him while Harry shrugs on his winter outer coat and plops his earmuffs from his neck on his head. A bit tough to do while walking, but they made it work.

Harry takes his hand, pulling him towards the village. “You haven’t explored the place yet, right?

“Only to the Post office.” The man had ogled at him when he asked to send a letter to a castle perhaps a good thirty seconds away by bird flight.

He tugs at his arm, grinning mischievously. “Then you haven’t been to Zonkos! Or tasted butterbeer! It’s a bit early for that, honestly, but since when are drinks labelled by time anyway? And then we can go on to–”

Alex hasn’t slept in approximately 2.5 days. He was hanging off a bridge just 10 hours prior, laughed at by a madman. His arm still bandaged, burns at the tug.

He lets himself be pulled anyway.

*

On Hogsmeade weekends, where students roam about freely in the freezing cold, it’s not school robes they favour, but layers of thick trousers and sweaters with even thicker coats, scarfs and beanies and earmuffs galore. And of course, the occasional scruffy jeans and dirty sneakers.

Alex, with his thick black coat and boots, blends in more than Harry thought he would, in Hogsmeade.

People barely spare him a second glance, despite the freshly healed scar on his face. With the assured way he holds himself, he merges so seamlessly into the excitable energy of the crowd you would never think he doesn’t belong.

By silent agreement, they slip around the crowd, quietly darting in and out of shops, and in alleyways between the cottages. Harry can’t help be at awe, at this side of Alex that he rarely gets to see. At the way Alex angles himself subtly between Harry and the shopkeepers, weaving them between different gaggles of students with them none the wiser that _Harry Potter was here!_ without so much as a notice-me-not charm.

It’s fascinating. Mesmerising.

(Merlin’s beard, Harry still can’t get over how he’s _here_ to begin with.)

Couching along the back doors of Honeydukes, away from frosted glass and prying eyes, the two of them grin at each other, holding their bags of spoils.

“All this sneaking around feels like we’re up to no good.” Harry admits, nibbling at his sugar quill while rustling at their bag of sweets.

“Like primary school all over again?” Alex teased.

“Exactly.”

(Childhood wasn’t sitting in his cupboard, scrawling at newspapers with broken crayons, or hiding away from Dudley and his gang at school. It’s the memory of sticky fingers glazed with half-melted toffees and laughter on the rooftops, reading stories together under the blankets in Alex’s room.

Like now, stolen moments full of sugar spun happiness, bits of sweetness melting away in his mouth and caramelising in his heart.)

“Here, try this.” He pushes a packet of pepper imps into Alex’s hands, a neon label _–Red-Hot Special Edition Only This Season!–_ proudly stuck on to the front.

Alex frowns, “That looks… fiery.”

“It is a little bit.”

“I didn’t know that wizards use plastic,” he says as he tears opens the packet and plops the black-red sweet into his mouth.

Harry waits for it.

Alex looks more startled than he has ever seen him, eyes wide. Harry watches gleefully as his face gets redder and redder and smoke starts leaking out of his ears.

“Oh my god you–” Alex tries to say but breathes fire instead.

Harry chortles, and doesn’t protest when the other boy tackles at him and a hand shoves a pepper imp against his mouth in revenge.

He swallows the _peppermintspicycinnamon,_ and feels the familiar heat funnelling from his chest up to his face, squeezing his eyes shut as he hears a roaring in his ears. It builds and builds, until the pressure in his head releases with a _wooosshPOP,_ steam chugging out of his ears like he’s the Hogwarts Express.

“That,” he coughs out whiffs of smoke, flames licking at the corners of his lips, “was a lot of cinnamon.”

He tips his head up at Alex, notes the tears gathered at the corner of his eyes and his reddish, swollen nose, and bursts out laughing all over again, still hackling puffs of ashy smog. “You- you should see your face!”

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up.” The blonde rolls his eyes, although his mouth twitches up exasperatingly. With a curious, calculative glint in his eyes, he peers down at the bag. “What else do we have?”

His arm is still around Harry’s shoulders from when he tackled him earlier, and when he leans over his shoulder Harry feels his face heat for a different reason.

He opens the paper bag, hand grope blindly for their sweets – Harry suddenly wanting to impress and feeling self-conscious for absolutely not reason at all. _They’re just bloody candy._

“Well…” Grabbing the first thing in the bag, he pulls out a pack of fizzing wheezebees.

_Aha!_

He presents the chocolates, waving it in Alex’s face for dramatic effect. “Wanna try floating off the ground?”

Alex didn’t even pause.

“Brilliant idea.”

*

“How’s the butterbeer?”

Alex sips at the warm drink from his canteen –they didn’t want to stay there and possibly attract more attention, so he simply poured the it into his bottle– and considers.

“Not too sweet, surprisingly,” he decides. “there’s melted butterscotch and a slight alcohol content. A few ingredients that I can’t quite identify. It’s nice. Bit sticky, though.”

He passes the canteen back to Harry, who drank it with a small contented sigh.

They were at the edge of the village, taking a long detour around the Hogwarts grounds. Harry took the chance to point out to Alex all the things he mentioned in his letters, from the lake with the rumoured black squid to the quidditch pitch to the massive, hulking density of the forbidden forest.

 _The_ forbidden forest where he went in for detention and _met an evil wizard eating a unicorn_?

The quidditch pitch where students play magic basketball _stories up in the air,_ where he fell off his broom once chased by half a dozen _soul sucking_ creatures? Where he literally just fought a _dragon_?

Oh dear god.

Why on earth are there _so many_ health hazards in a single location with a bloody boarding school, Alex has no idea. The wizarding population’s strange disregard for life, probably given that they are able to fix almost anything with a twitch of their sticks or with some potion or another, drives him insane.

What’s next, is Harry going to get into an epic fight with the black squid? Punch some mermaids, perhaps?

Alex shakes his heads, chasing away the thoughts and the worry that always accompanies them.

He grabs at Harry’s hands and intertwines their fingers together. Squeezes.

The touch grounds him, like a weighted blanket that presses him down onto the soil when all he felt for the past few months was untethered, like a balloon filled with helium, floating adrift, tied down only by a flimsy piece of string.

“W-wha-” Harry stammers, staring at their hands.

“I’m cold. Gimme some of your body heat.”

It’s true that his hand is now comfortably cocooned in warmth. Harry has always been like a furnace, which has very useful on cold days when they were younger and huddling under blankets on the couch.

And now of course, it’s provided a good excuse to hold his hand. Always.

Harry studies his face suspiciously, and Alex maintains his most serene, innocent expression. Harry scowls and looks away. There’re spots of red crawling up the back of his neck, and at the tips of his ears. _It’s cute_.

“…Thats not fair. That’s not fair at all,” he mutters as he sips angrily at the butterbeer with his other hand and walks a little faster ahead.

He doesn’t let go though.

*

They came upon the sight of a dilapidated cottage far in the distance – a tall, towering one with mismatched, barred up windows.

“That’s the shrieking shack.” Harry says quietly. “Do you know all the windows are fake? And there aren’t any doors. The entrance is out of a winding tunnel all the way to the whomping willow behind the school.”

His eyes are glazed over in the way it tends to when he’s recalling something unpleasant, eerie and sickly bright.

Alex squeezes his hand, pushing closer so that they’re touching fully at the side, hands to elbows to shoulders.

Harry blinks and turns to him, and breaks out in a small smile. “It’s where I met Sirius. And… oh!”

He shoves the canteen in the pocket of his robes, and gingerly takes out his wand, pointing it away from Alex and in full view. He takes a deep breath.

“Um. When Sirius and I were stuck in the forest, surrounded by the dementors– well actually a bunch of things happened– and Professor Lupin was a werewolf, and a Ron’s pet rat was Pettigrew and I’ve already toldyouallthesebefore– and _a-anyway!_ ” Harry coughs. _“_ We were surrounded, and all I could think about was not being able to get that damn patronus that I’d been trying to cast all year. A-and um,”

He squeezes their hands.

“I wanted to show this to you. Because you said– you said that night. That you loved me. And,”

Harry looks like he’s on his fifth chew on the pepper imps, with how red he’s gotten, but he barrels on endearingly, “I just wanted to show you. _”_

He whispers _Expecto Patronum_ and–

–A swallow bursts out from the wand, fluttering and swift, whirling away and around them. A silvery, dancing thing, with a freckled belly and specks of blue on its wings.

The swallow lands and twitters up at him from his hands, which he realised he had instinctively held up.

It’s as if light is in overabundance, pouring out of the creature, and Alex holds his breath, suddenly feeling as if the cold in his heart is being chased away, the weight a little lighter on his shoulders.

Alex realises it’s the first real piece of magic Harry has done in front of him. This precious tiny thing that radiates warmth and solid, humming _strength_ .

He laughs, staring at it in wonder “You’re beautiful!”

The swallow nuzzles at his palm before puffing its chest proudly and taking off again, too restless to stay for more than a moment. It zig zags once more around them, doing one last twirl before vanishing into the sky.

Something sings in air still, a lingering sense of nostalgia and longing. _Oh._

There wasn’t a single instant where Alex could pinpoint it happened. If he were older he might’ve looked back on it and called it a shifting in the air, a lifting of stormy clouds to reveal the morning sun, of something _right_ slotting into place.

Alex hasn’t really felt anything like this before, this conviction that he is someone else’s light. The realisation that it’s okay if this person is his light in return. It puts him off-kilter.

A hand takes his again and squeezes, and Harry tells him what he already knows.

“It means summer.”

_It means you._

He turns and stares. Harry looks nervous, but he looks at him straight in the eyes, determined, ultimately unafraid. As if he already knows the depth of what Alex feels for him in return.

“Yeah,” he manages to say, breathless, heart pounding. “I know.”

*

“So… I won’t be going back for Christmas.”

“You– what? _Why_?”

Harry kicks at the snow, muffling something indecipherable into his scarf.

They are almost at the gate, having spent most of the day out. The sun is starting to set, hues of crimson and gold bleeding through ancient hulking trees and spilling across the snow.

It would’ve been a pretty sight to gaze upon had Alex not been so distracted by what Harry has to say.

“What?”

“I said–“ Harry huffs irritably, “That I have to open a stupid ball, with a stupid girl that I need to ask out– and I haven’t even figured out that stupid _stupid_ egg that everyone’s expected me to crack by now and it’s been total bollocks–”

“Hey,” Alex flicks him in the forehead before he spirals further into a panic, the poor boy starting to pull at his hair strands. “We’ll figure it out. And your friends will help you, won’t they? You just need to ask.”

Harry, who had started deflating bit by bit, perks up with an earnest sort of hope, “We? You mean, you’re staying?”

“I can spare a couple more days.” A week, even, though perhaps that’s stretching it – Alex doesn’t want MI6 to declare him dead. Again. Jack would worry. “I still need to figure out a way back, to be honest. I really hadn’t thought this through. We can meet at the gate.”

“I have the invisibility cloak,” Harry points out. “And several ways to sneak in and out, easy. Will _you_ be okay?”

Alex thinks back on the whirlwind of events that got him here. From his mission, to the debrief, the spontaneous trip to Portree, his encounter with the portkey and malicious looking creature– and _Harry_.

Harry’s _swallow_ , beaming with light and goodness and unwavering devotion. An eternal summer, a homing beacon for sailors at sea.

_Magic is truly, wonderfully amazing._

“I’ll be alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next day, harry marches over with 20 and a half healing salves and forces it on alex's wounds– _did you really think I wouldn't notice the way you've been holding your arm? seriously Alex._
> 
> alex meets one hermione granger and one ronald weasley. they get along coordially
> 
> alex isn't that open to them the way he is around harry, harry is super mystified (and inside a little big smug) on this. 
> 
> r&h: so what're your tips on getting harry's head out of his arse?
> 
> a: poke his forehead. works every time
> 
> harry: oi
> 
> thank you for your comments the previous chapter! they give me strength to keep going. i've got a few more planned for this series, i hope y'all will like it! 
> 
> (also, i've literally just been??? taking bits and pieces of phrases that i love from various fanfictions that i read across various fandoms and? adapting it into my own?? is that allowed?? not word-for-word of course but– idk how does one write! creatively! share with me your tips and tricks)


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